Waking in the morning, I would find myself not only soaked from tears but also from urine. The coldness during the night without the blankets would cause me to wet the bed. This always meant that I would be punished. Punishment consisted of being isolated. No one could talk to me; I could not play with any of my toys; a screen would be placed around my bed so I could not see the rest of the children. When the medical director made rounds with the charge nurse, they would tell me what a bad girl I was for creating a disturbance and that as long as I continued to do it, I would be punished. When night came I was again without covers. I was told that there would not be a sheet and blanket for me until I learned to stop screaming and upsetting all the other children. At four years old that was a pretty hard thing to do. I was able to hold back the fears and the screaming for a few nights, then fear would return and I would be repeating all the same things again. When I tried to figure out who the witches were, I realized that they looked like some of the doctors and nurses. In fact, they looked a lot like the ones that I was fearful of in the daylight. My biggest fear was they would open the doors and come in and get me.
I tried to hear what they were talking about. I was afraid to look directly at them in case they saw me. I would hear them talking about surgery for my friends Angie and Rosemary, who had already moved to the big girls’ ward. Also, they talked of the girls who were going home. Oh, the longing in my heart that it would be me. I never heard them mention my name.
The Baby’s Cross
I look out of my bed through big brown eyes framed by my pitch black hair. My tiny body is encased in a plaster cast from my neck to my knees as I lie on my stomach, perched on my elbows. This is the view of the world that I will experience for the next twelve years.
Did I say bed? It was a metal crib with bars on all sides. I was tied in this crib with an apron strap, which had four ties on each side tied to the side bars of the crib and two ties that tied around my neck and then to the front bars of the crib. I could not get out if I wanted to, only four years old, unable to run and play. The look on my face was one of determination, telling the world that I could tackle anything that was to come.
You could see in my large brown eyes the questions that were deep in my heart. How did I get here? What happened to me? Why was I unable to run and play like other children? Why isn’t my mother here? I really need her here with me. The plaster cast was so heavy; my elbows chafed from rubbing against the sheets.
I would have a visitor each month; a tall thin lady, she was my aunty Eunice, my mother’s sister. I asked her where my mother was and she said, “She is very sick.” Aunty Eunice said that she would visit my mother following her visits with me and would tell her all about me. She told me I had Mom’s big brown eyes and her sweet singing voice. She was like a messenger who would bring good news back and forth. I asked her if she would bring Mom someday when she got better. She promised she would. She would give me a big hug and when she would leave I would cry. I missed her when she left. She was so nice and smelled so good and would make me laugh, but most of all it was her hugs. I couldn’t feel them too much on top of the plaster but I knew they would feel good.
The answer to all the questions that were in my mind were somewhat answered in the poem which is the title of my book, “The Baby’s Cross,” written by my mom. The poem was written after one of the visits to me and then to my mom from Aunty Eunice, who had brought the message to her along with the picture.
The Baby’s Cross
Her big brown eyes twinkle roguishly.
(As they use to when she’d chase her cat.)
Oh dear, why did I think of that?
She asked for him today and wondered,
“Did her Saunders miss her while she was away?”
The kitten died but she never knew
The sorrows of childhood should be so few.
Yet—the cast extends from her sturdy shoulders to her knees
And, when one thinks of these, and many other things,
How joyously she laughs, how sweet she sings.
Then when her little story of her wants are done,
She whispers, earnestly, “Some day I will run and run.
So far that nobody can catch me again.
With a sigh, your heavy heart whispers back— AMEN
By Marjorie Logan Wilson to Gale 11/16/36
In memory of Eunice’s visit to my darling Gale
The Upside Down Doll
In the spring of 1937, I was visited by a beautiful lady with black hair and brown eyes. She had a pretty pink dress on and smelled so nice. I don’t remember seeing her before. She told me she was my mother; I couldn’t seem to remember her. I had already been in the hospital for less than a year and was visited by Eunice but never by this lady who called herself my mom. She said, “I have a surprise for you.” She handed me a bag and inside of it was a very soft doll. The doll looked like Aunt Jemima, a character in one of my storybooks. She had a red and white checked scarf tied on her head and a red and white checked dress with a shawl tied around her shoulders. She was the same color as my friend Marianne, and I told my mom I was going to name the doll after my friend. I hugged the doll and thanked my mom for bringing her to me. She said that I should turn the doll upside down and see what happened. I did this and on the other end was another doll; she was a Dutch girl with blonde braids and a blue print dress with pink flowers. She was wearing a white Dutch hat that looked very similar to one of the nurse’s hats, except that the nurse had a black stripe on hers. I reached up and gave my mom a big hug and kiss, and when I let go I noticed a tear roll down her cheek. This made me sad. When it was time for her to leave, she said goodbye and told me to be a good girl and do what the nurses told me to do. She also told me to make sure I said hello to God every day. I wondered who God was, yet promised to say hello to God to make my mother happy. Then she turned to leave; I started crying but not loudly as I didn’t want her to hear me. She looked back and waved. I remember feeling what I know today is loneliness. I hugged the doll she brought, not knowing that I would never see my mother again. I clutched the doll close to my cast and held her tightly in my hands. This doll was the biggest comfort to me through the next several years. When I finally left the hospital, my aunty Catherine would not let me bring my toys. She said I had to leave them as they might have germs in them. I said, “Well, I have to bring my upside down Marianne doll with me,” and she said, “No,” My heart was heavy. I did not want to leave this doll behind as she was my comfort and knew all my secrets, fears, hopes and dreams. All my pleading and begging did me no good. The doll was left behind.
Later in life my husband and I would search antique shops looking for an upside down doll. I would describe the doll to the shop owners, and although they would know what I was talking about I continued to hear the same answer over and over again: “Sorry, we don’t have one.” I would ask if they knew of any vendors that did. The answer was always the
